Rebecca Young had received an email from her boss, head teacher James Whitman, government adviser, asking her to ‘pop in’ for a ‘quick catch-up’ during her free period at eleven that morning. It was the time that she usually allocated to her extracurricular work as Head of English.
She wondered what it was about. She didn’t like unexpected summons. They rarely brought good news.
James’s door was shut. She knocked.
‘Come in,’ he called.
She opened the door and stepped over the threshold. He indicated the door. ‘Close it behind you.’
It was said pleasantly but she got the sense she was now caught in a trap. She went to sit down. He joined her, coming out from behind his desk.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked.
It was, but that’s about to change, she mused. ‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Good. I just wanted a quick chat with you. I know you’ve had a particularly challenging set of friendship issues in your year.’
‘You mean the ongoing bullying issues between Rosie Wood and Lara Miller?’
He looked mildly taken aback. She felt a small satisfaction – probably misjudged, but she liked the direct approach.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I understand you’ve asked Mrs Wood to come in and chat about Rosie’s behaviour.’
So Mrs Wood must have spoken to him directly, thought Rebecca. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Rosie has been making Lara’s life miserable for some time. She’s quite sneaky about it but I caught her knocking a paint pot over Lara’s bag earlier this week.’
‘An accident,’ said James.
She got the strangest feeling he was telling her, not asking her. ‘That’s what she claimed.’
‘But you think different.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said, riled. ‘Backed up by comments that are designed to be belittling and undermining.’ Rebecca occasionally caught little phrases, or words and saw Lara’s crestfallen face. ‘Telling Lara a particular bench in the playground is only for kids who’ve been at the school a long time. Asking other children why they’re talking to Lara. Making loud comments about being “ugly” that are designed for Lara to hear.’
‘Hmm, I can see how that would be hurtful.’
Hurtful? It was positively destroying. Rebecca always pulled Rosie up on what she said but she couldn’t monitor everything, and she had a suspicion Rosie kept most of her comments away from teachers’ ears.
‘The thing is,’ said James, ‘kids don’t know the power of their words. They don’t really understand what they’re doing.’
‘Oh, I think they do,’ said Rebecca. ‘They know exactly what they’re doing. That’s why they do it. They see how upset they can make someone.’
Rebecca knew the power of nasty comments, they chipped away at the recipient’s confidence and happiness until they were reduced to a miserable shell. It had happened to her as a child too. By another girl. Amelia Keatley her name was. Rebecca would never forget it. She had made her life hell. Constant comments about her body. She was an underdeveloper and Amelia and her cronies called her ‘Tortilla Tits’. Once, in PE, the other girls had taken her uniform, towel and PE kit when she was in the shower and hidden them in the boys’ changing room. She had stood there, naked, hands covering herself, enduring their humiliating laughter until the teacher had come in and they had scarpered. The teacher had been more irritated that she herself had had to go and retrieve the clothing than anything else, and said Rebecca would do well to get out of the shower quicker in future to prevent something like this happening again. She’d hated swimming after that. Still hated swimming.
It was always the girls who carried out the bullying campaigns, Rebecca mused. Boys just punched each other. So much easier to manage when it was something tangible.
‘Are you aware of the petition some of the mothers put together to get Lara ousted as Head of School?’ she asked.
James looked surprised. ‘Petition? Sent to you?’
‘No . . .’
‘Who did it go to then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I didn’t receive anything.’
‘They definitely talked about it,’ defended Rebecca.
He smiled. ‘If I acted on every piece of gossip from parents, I would never get any work done.’ He rested his clasped hands on his knees, leaned forward. ‘In my experience, we should avoid over-involving the parents too soon. It’s better to work on the girls’ friendship in class. Get them to talk.’
You don’t know what you’re talking about, she thought. ‘I’ve tried that,’ she said.
‘I think we should give it another go. We don’t want to give up too easily, do we?’
Rebecca bristled. She wasn’t giving up. She was taking decisive action. And it was perfectly clear from this conversation that Mrs Wood had gone over her head and asked James Whitman to interfere. Stop any kind of meeting. He’d agreed in order to keep things quiet, keep the impression of a smooth-running school. Presumably Mrs Wood hoped – or assumed – it would all be brushed under the carpet and Rosie would be allowed to continue with her devious destruction of another girl’s confidence. It pissed Rebecca off. Pissed her off no end.
‘I really don’t think there’s any love lost between these two girls,’ she said, trying again. ‘No matter what I try, they are not destined to be friends.’
‘They don’t have to be friends. Just civil enough that we can all get on with our jobs.’
Oh great, thought Rebecca. Now it was down to her to fix it, but he’d completely taken away any power she had to do so.
‘Think you can manage that?’ he asked. ‘Only it’s parents’ evening tonight and I’m aware it might come up. Be good to have your ducks in a row beforehand.’
She was speechless for a moment, not quite believing the position she was being put in.
‘You know how these parents can collar you,’ he added sympathetically, conspiratorially.
She stood, fuming, but was smart enough not to show it. She was learning how James operated. He was a political animal – that was how he had got so far. Only four years out of training college, she was ambitious herself and did not want her career unfairly curtailed by a powerful megalomaniac.
‘Of course,’ she said. She nodded and left his office, still livid. It was unfair what he was doing. He was putting himself and his career before some poor kid who was getting picked on. Well, Rebecca wasn’t having that. Oh no. And she could find another way to address the unfairness, she thought, as she walked back down the corridor.